When pitcher Mike Norris lost his arbitration case several years ago, he shrugged it off. "No problem," he said. "I was either going to wake up rich or richer."

In a negotiating system unique in all of sports, baseball sometimes is reduced to settling salary disputes in a one-day trial of wits, harkening back to the days of nasty municipal and railroad strikes when arbitrators settled bargaining standoffs.

Here's the setup: The unsigned player -- who must have at least three years (172 days per) of major-league experience -- and his team each submit a figure to the Player Relations Committee on what the

player is worth. A one-day hearing before an independent arbitrator -- often, a law professor with a questionable background in baseball -- is scheduled. Neither side is allowed a preview of the opposition's case. Each side gets one hour to argue his case, plus a half-hour of rebuttal. They call it a day.

Within 24 hours, the arbitrator simply signs off on one of two contracts. No explanation needed. No discretion. Simple, huh?

"Oh, no, it can get nasty. Real nasty," said Yankees general manager Bob Watson, a former player who went through a number of cases during his previous stint as Houston's GM. "Nobody's fighting, throwing fists or anything like that. But it's close."

"Never again," said third baseman Mike Pagliarulo, who has never gotten over the humiliation of his 1988 arbitration loss to the Yankees.

Gentlemen, check your wallets -- and your pride -- at the door.

"It's very frustrating -- almost demoralizing," said Darren Lewis, the former Giants centerfielder who now plays for the Chicago White Sox. "It actually makes you more angry than anything else."

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The idea of salary arbitration in baseball first took shape in the late 1960s, as a way to avoid costly player holdouts and curtail union leader Marvin Miller's efforts to yank the game's antitrust exemption and reserve system.

Most owners and executives -- unwilling to grant their players free agency -- bought the notion, but not the A'sCharlie Finley, a notorious tightwad who had baseball's top team and the game's second-lowest payroll.

"We'll be the nation's biggest assholes if we do this," he screamed back in the early '70s. "You can't win. You'll have guys with no baseball background setting salaries."

Within legal circles, arbitration is considered a pretty lucrative assignment for an attorney, even when confronted with the tough cases. Imagine the ambience in the coming weeks when Boston's Mo Vaughn sits across the table from his Red Sox bosses. Vaughn, the American League's most valuable player who pulled down $2.775 million last season, thinks he's worth about $6.1 million this season. The Red Sox have countered with a $4.2 million offer.

"There's nothing like this," said New York-based attorney Jay Bergen, 58, a longtime representative for various owners with 32 years of experience as a trial lawyer and litigator. "It's litigation as God meant it to be -- no delays, no postponements. It's like a gunfight."

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Lewis will not be fondly remembered by Quinn, a veteran of five arbitration cases during his general manager days with the Yankees, Reds and Giants.

Coming off a Gold Glove season in 1993 in which he earned $350,000, Lewis was unable to come to terms with the Giants on a deal for the strike-shortened '94 season. Lewis' Chicago-based agent, Jim Bronner, a longtime scrapper in the arbitration ring, submitted a figure of $1.85 million to the Player Relations Committee, contending that Lewis' fielding prowess was worthy of that amount.

Quinn and Bergen, his trusty arbitration partner, countered with an offer of $1.025 million.

Lewis won.

"That one really hurt because Jay and I had won 'em all before that," said Quinn, who was 4-0 in the past teaming up with Bergen to outhustle players such as Greg Swindell and Randy Myers.

Lewis, who was traded the following season to Cincinnati and recently signed with the White Sox, recalled the scene, set in a meeting room of a Philadelphia hotel.

Lewis and his representatives sat across the table from Quinn, Bergen and "four other guys that just sat across from me with stacks -- I'm not exaggerating -- stacks of statistical books."

"Yeah, those were my people," recalled Bergen, who came armed with a computer, printer, statistical programs and what he considered a winning argument.

Bergen told arbitrator Morton Mitchnick, a Canadian attorney, that Lewis was no better than the Orioles' Leo Gomez, another third- year player -- and client of Lewis' agent, Jim Bronner -- who two weeks earlier had to accept a $1.025 million deal after losing a hearing with Mitchnick. Sure, Lewis was a great fielder, Bergen conceded, but Lewis was a lousy leadoff man and marginal hitter.

"You seem to be giving an awful lot of consideration to the fact that Darren Lewis won a Gold Glove," Bergen recalled telling Mitchnick. "People don't get million-dollar raises because of a Gold Glove."

Comparing him to Gomez, Bergen and Quinn thought they had their case: Gomez had 58 career homers, Lewis had eight; Gomez had 191 RBIs, Lewis had 111; Gomez's slugging percentage was .418; Lewis' was .319.

Intimidating? Lewis wouldn't go that far.

"It was just basically how the club had to go after the player," he said, adding this personal rider: "a player who went out and did everything for the team and the organization.

"All because of the dollar bill."

While Lewis silently fumed during the hearing, Bergen and Quinn got the feeling that Mitchnick wanted to foster an image as an even-handed arbitrator by siding with Lewis after having ruled against Gomez. "Splitting the baby," baseball folks call it.

Bergen calls the Lewis decision his most bitter defeat. Why? "Because he really shouldn't have won," said Bergen, who has won 12 of the 16 arbitration cases he has argued for owners.

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Not all of the hearings are so nasty. Jesse Orosco once fell asleep in the middle of his. Whitey Herzog, in his book "White Rat," called Terry Pendleton a "jewel," and said he epitomized everything a third baseman should be.

Bronner, the agent for Pendleton, later used Herzog's own written words to win an arbitration case for his client.

More often than not, however, the damage done by a hearing often lingers. Players have trouble dismissing the verbal ammo his team used to make its case.

"No doubt it affects players, and not in a positive manner, either," Watson said. "Still, most sides typically will do whatever they can to avoid the process.

"Man, I never wanted to go through that -- I always signed long-term deals," former A's pitcher Dave Stewart recalled.

Bergen, who argued for the Yankees in the Pagliarulo hearing, agreed that his was a particularly hostile one. Pagliarulo, who Bergen says spurned a late contract offer by manager Lou Pinella because of pressure from the players' union, sought $625,000 but wound up with the club's offer of $500,000.

"It lasted almost 5 1/2 hours," said Bergen. "And he brought his wife. How smart was that?"

Bergen recalled arguing the Yankees' case in 1993 against pitcher Jim Abbott's claim for $3.5 million. Abbott, who had recently been traded from California, lost, still got a healthy $2.35 million and was furious afterward.

"He almost didn't shake my hand," Bergen said of Abbott, who earlier that year had surprised many in baseball by turning down the Angels' four-year, $16 million guaranteed offer. "He was very upset.

"The problem with the players is, the agents don't prepare them for what's going to happen," added Bergen, who likens an arbitration hearing to "a very negative job review."

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Still, the number of players filing for arbitration this season was up from last year, when 58 filed in April after the 232-day strike and a federal court order that preserved arbitration. Ninety-one players filed in 1994 and 118 in 1993. The record of 161 was set in 1990.

Owners begrudge arbitration as the cause of baseball's skyrocketing salaries in the 1980s. To wit: Between 1989 and '92, the average player's salary rose from $489,000 to more than $1 million and reached a peak of $2.468 million last year.

All things considered, both sides generally will do whatever it takes to avoid putting their egos and their payrolls at the whim of an arbitrator.

"Of course I don't like it. I like negotiating when it's eye-on-eye, one-on-one," said Cincinnati Reds owner Marge Schott, who relies on what she calls the women's perspective when faced with the prospect of arbitration.

"See, I deal with the wives. I don't deal with the players," she said with a throaty laugh. "When I want to keep the guys, I keep the wives."

"I still think players are doing pretty good without going to arbitration," said Milwaukee general manager Phil Garner, a former third baseman and staunch players' rights negotiator. "Arbitration gives you an opportunity" if the two sides are miles apart.

"But I think most ballplayers have realized, if you get close to what you think you might get, sign it. Everybody's happy. And go on and play."